Blueberries are among those plants that do not easily blend into a mixed orchard like ours. Their soil needs are quite different from most fruit trees. While apples plums pears and many others thrive in slightly acidic soil blueberries prefer a far more acidic environment. In some cases they perform best at a pH as low as 4.5 to 5. This difference alone makes them challenging companions in a diverse food forest.

Growing blueberries in containers is often suggested as a solution. In theory it works. In practice it demands large volumes of suitable growing medium. In my orchard fertile soil is limited. Much of the land is heavy clay and in places little more than rock. Filling large planters with purchased soil did not feel sensible or sustainable. Also, growing in containers requires a strict watering schedule which is hard to ensure in a place like ours.

Instead I chose to work with the land itself. I dug large planting pits in a sunny part of the orchard where the surrounding fruit trees are still young. Most of these trees are apples and plums planted about two years ago. To contain the contrasting soil of blueberries, I lined the sides of these pits with old untreated wooden boards. The result is a kind of buried ‘partial’ planter. The base is left open to allow natural drainage while the sides slow down soil mixing during the early years, while the boards hold up. Later these boards themselves will become part of the soil.

The blueberry plants that I bought, were in small pots. I reused the excavated soil from the planting hole and amended it lightly with pine needles and a small quantity of gypsum. To this I mixed the soil from the pots in which these plants had arrived. No fertilisers of any kind were added. Blueberries are sensitive plants and excessive feeding (especially chemical based) often does more harm than good, especially immediately after planting. Each cuboidal pit was roughly one foot deep and about two feet in length and breadth. The wooden planks were thin old boards with no chemical treatment so that they can slowly decompose without contaminating the soil.

Blueberries will remain much shorter than the surrounding fruit trees. I have often read that they make good neighbours but poor roommates. They can grow near other trees but struggle when forced to share the same soil conditions. These hidden in ground planters offer a degree of separation at least in the initial years. As the orchard matures the deeper roots of the apples and plums will draw minerals from wider and lower soil zones while the blueberries continue to feed closer to the surface within their acidic pocket.

Blueberries lack the commonly found root hairs as in various other plants, and so are quite finicky about the nutrients being available in close vicinity. I plan to focus on good mulch upto their drip lines, with occasional addition of sulphur and magnesium. (Though care will be required since sulphur can kill my precious fungal networks in the soil). Old folks who have been growing Blueberries for decades now also recommend tossing in a few rusted nails. The idea is to make iron available in case the soil is not acidic enough or iron is lacking.

To complete the system I plan to spread strawberries around the blueberry beds. Tomorrow, I have been invited to a lunch at one of my neighbours (Yes, I do visit people at times), so, day after tomorrow, I plan to transplant some strawberries from another patch to this area, and mulch a bit more with pine needles. Strawberries also enjoy slightly acidic soil and make an excellent living ground cover. They protect the soil reduce evaporation and add another productive layer to the food forest. Over time this small guild should settle into a balanced relationship each plant occupying its own niche without forcing compromise on the others.

Growing blueberries in an orchard like this is not the easiest path. But thoughtful design patience and a willingness to adapt make it possible to honour the needs of each plant while still moving towards a resilient and diverse landscape. I will write more about blueberries once I see how they turn out. Keeping my fingers crossed till then.

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As I hinted earlier, soil is a subject I can go on about for a long time. Here are some more thoughts on this. One of the major lessons I have learnt over the past decade is how the soil in natural forests remains self sustaining. Trees there grow tall and majestic. They feed countless forms of life and still they do not depend on any additional inputs. No one tills the land. No one turns the soil. No one carries fertilisers to them. No one performs labour intensive activities. Yet the system thrives.

The reason is simple. All the parts of a forest are complete and interdependent. Everything that is needed is already present within the system. The only major input comes from sunlight and to a smaller extent from rainfall. Everything else is part of a continuous cycle that feeds itself.

As I began moving my own orchard towards this balance, I read widely and experimented slowly. Over time a few realisations settled deep within me.

The first and most important realisation is that forest systems work because nothing is taken away from them. Plants produce food. Animals feed on this. They live their lives on the same land and return every bit of what they received back to the soil. Even their bodies at the end of life decompose in the same place. It is a closed loop. The place looks wild but it is an organised and a complete ‘closed-loop’ system.

In orchards this loop is broken. We take away fruits. We prune branches. We trim the orchard floor often. We even scare the birds away. All these actions remove nutrients that were meant to return to the soil. So one of the first changes I made was to stop this constant removal. Now I leave all clippings and cleared weeds on the orchard floor. Fallen leaves remain where they fall. Everything that grew on this land goes back to it. I still collect fruits but in return I add compost and manure. Even this need has reduced with time as the soil regains its natural rhythm.

A gentle word of caution is also needed. Excess of anything is bad and this applies to soil too. Adding too much organic matter is not always beneficial. Thick layers of mulch, especially when piled close to tree trunks, can trap heat and sometimes create harmful gases. During cold winters they may also shelter rodents that gnaw at the bark. I learnt this the hard way when one of my plum trees suffered damage. Overloading the soil with compost is equally unwise in an orchard that is slowly moving towards a self sustaining balance. Too much compost can disturb the microbial life rather than support it. Soil works best when its proportions remain in balance. Broadly speaking, a healthy soil contains about forty five percent mineral matter, twenty percent water, thirty percent air spaces, and only around five percent organic matter.

The second realisation is that soil should never remain exposed. In forests the soil is always hidden under leaves or under a natural layer of plants. Bare soil is a sign of disturbance usually caused by repeated trampling or rocky patches. So in my orchard I too keep the soil covered. Cover crops protect it. Mulch and compost protect it. Even when I plant new saplings I make sure that their base is covered, though taking care not to pile it too high. This biomass also breaks down steadily and returns nutrients back into the soil.

Another learning came from observing how plants breathe. They breathe not only through leaves but also through roots. Roots need air pockets. Good soil has around twenty to thirty percent of these air pockets. Two major enemies of these are compaction and flooding. Heavy machinery can compact the soil to such a depth that even the deepest roots struggle to push through. Clay soils also compact easily. Frequent tilling and turning the soil worsens this. So I stopped doing that altogether. I walk only on well defined paths and avoid stepping into growing areas.

Closely linked to this is the idea of not turning the soil. Each soil layer has its own purpose. Each layer is rich with its own form of life. Near the surface there are fungi, insects and worms that work on decomposition. Deeper layers host different worms and microorganisms that redistribute nutrients and allow water and air to move freely. Still deeper lie anaerobic organisms that thrive without oxygen. Turning the soil disrupts all of this. It mixes the layers and disturbs each group. It accelerates compaction. It reduces life in the soil over time. Many commercial farmers get caught in a cycle. They plough to break compacted soil but this ploughing again leads to compaction which pushes them to plough again. It becomes endless. Turning the soil also releases nutrients especially nitrogen into the air and exposes the land to erosion.

A self sustaining soil depends on life and not on force. My orchard is slowly moving in that direction. The soil has started breathing again. Earthworms have returned. Fungi are weaving through the mulch. Some days I feel the land is teaching me more than any book ever did.

And in these small and steady steps I am learning to trust the natural balance. My orchard is not a forest, yet when I follow the same principles of return and renewal the soil begins to find its own strength again. This quiet return of auto fertility shows itself in many subtle ways. The plants look healthier and become more resilient to environmental challenges. The fruits gain better flavour and size. Earthworms become more common. The mix of flora and fauna grows richer. New birds visit. More varieties of insects hover everywhere. Mushrooms appear on the orchard floor after a moist spell. These signs remind me that the journey is still unfolding, yet the rewards are already present and very real.

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In nature water is a giver of life but in pots it could just as quickly turn into a quiet agent of decay. Over the years I watched many people care for their potted plants with the warmest intentions yet unknowingly harm them. I had made the same mistakes myself in the early days. Over-watering was one of the easiest traps to fall into and also one of the deadliest. Now, when I see wilted plants in the pots of an over enthusiastic gardener I almost always assume the reason is too much water and not drought.

In open soil, the earth behaves like a giant sponge. Rain sinks down through many layers and moves slowly into the lower ground. This is why I prefer to leave as much bare earth (though covered with vegetation) as I can on my land. When it receives direct rain, and has good organic matter, trees and shrubs thrive. Even in days of heavy rain the ground keeps breathing. The roots stay in touch with air and remain healthy. Pots however do not offer this freedom. A pot is a closed little world where the natural flow of water has nowhere to go once the soil is full.

Overwatering affects not only root respiration but also the entire nutrient uptake pathway in potted plants. When the soil remains saturated the pore spaces that normally hold air become filled with water, creating anaerobic conditions. Under these low oxygen levels the fine root hairs, which are the primary sites for nutrient absorption, undergo rapid decay. This reduces the plant’s ability to take up essential ions such as nitrate, potassium, calcium, and magnesium. Prolonged saturation also leads to leaching of mobile nutrients, especially nitrogen in the form of nitrate, which moves easily through waterlogged media. In addition, anaerobic conditions promote the growth of harmful microbes that convert available nutrients into unusable or even toxic forms. As a result plants show chlorosis (yellowing), stunted growth, weak stems, and increased susceptibility to root diseases. Chronic overwatering disrupts both the physical and biochemical processes that allow a plant to feed itself. So, even if the plant is alive, it may not be as healthy as it should be due to overwatering.

When water collects at the bottom of a pot the roots sit in a dark airless pocket. In the past I often misunderstood these signs. I clearly and painfully remember a particular marjoram plant that looked tired so I watered it again thinking I was helping. Within days the small leaves turned yellow and soft. They fell at the slightest touch. Only when I pulled the plant out did I realise the roots were brown and mushy. By then the damage was done.

Things became even worse whenever the drainage holes clogged. I once had a large ceramic pot with a young hybrid raspberry plant. It grew beautifully for months then suddenly stopped. I watered it more and the poor thing collapsed within a week. When I checked the base I found that the hole had been blocked by crumbled stones packed with a mass of clay. In another case my lemon plant died because a single leaf had lodged itself over the hole and sealed it like a stopper. A fatal mistake that someone overlooked while planting the tree in that pot. Each watering had filled the pot like a bucket.

Some of my neglected pots created problems of their own. Over time the soil settled and compacted. In some older pots the soil became so tight that water simply sat on top or drained down the sides without touching the roots. Our soil here is heavy and clay rich even when mixed with compost. It used to turn into a sticky mass when wet and a hard cake when dry. Many plants could not push their roots through such resistance and slowly gave up. In those days I lost rosemary, thyme, basil, and lots of daisies through this mistake. Daisies in particular suffered as they dislike wet feet and die quickly in soggy soil.

To avoid repeating these errors I have now learnt to see when a pot is being overwatered and with timely intervention could save precious plants. I am now planning to buy a small battery operated moisture meter to check the pots more accurately. It should prove helpful because our eyes are not always reliable in judging moisture inside a deep pot and sometimes when me or my gardener are in a hurry, we tend to overlook the obvious tell-tale signs.

The long-term cure is however quite simple. I now use a light airy mix everywhere. I keep the holes at the bottom open. Sometimes I place multiple pebbles over the holes to prevent clogging. When my back permits, I lift the medium sized and small pots often to feel their weight. A waterlogged pot feels heavy and dull. Good soil feels crumbly and lightly moist. I water only when at least half the pot has dried out and the surface looks dry and loose. I also adjust watering with the seasons. In winter the plants need very little water.

Another interesting thing I learnt is that even in open ground a planting hole can behave like a pot. If the soil one digs out is heavy and rich in clay, the hole can hold water like a container with a closed bottom. When I am unsure I simply fill the hole with water and watch how fast it drains. This tells me what kind of tree will suit that spot. Pears for example can handle slightly heavier and more waterlogged soil. Peaches cannot tolerate it at all. When I backfill the hole I also make a small mound so that water does not collect around the base of the young tree. A little soil improvement helps as well and often makes the difference between a struggling plant and a healthy one.

Usually, in the wild plants have room to breathe and space for their roots to wander. In pots they rely entirely on us. A little patience and a little restraint with the watering can have saved many of my plants in recent years. Looking back I realise that most potted plants die not of thirst but of too much love in the form of water. A lesson that I am trying to pass on to my team and everyone who visits me.

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If I ever had to limit myself to only one activity here in the orchard, it would be building the soil. Everything else that we usually consider essential becomes secondary when soil is alive and balanced. Clearing the orchard floor or pruning or managing pests or correcting deficiencies all matter, yet none of them equals the impact of healthy soil. Even watering becomes far less critical. Soil that is rich in organic matter and well structured can absorb and hold water so efficiently that trees can thrive just on rain, snow, and dew.

Soil is not simply the ground beneath us. It is a living system. It is the base through which minerals flow, the habitat where microbes feed and multiply, the medium that holds water and air in a delicate balance, and the physical structure that anchors every plant. What I have now realized is that the health of an orchard is nothing more than the visible expression of the health of its soil.

My own journey began some years ago with trying to understand what I had. Initially, I collected soil samples from many parts of the orchard and sent them for an extensive analysis. The results were sobering. Most macro nutrients were grossly deficient. The pH had become too low after years of leaching on the mountain slope. The balance of minerals was disturbed in a way that affected both availability and uptake. Organic matter levels were quite low, which meant poor water holding and weak microbial life. Most parts of the orchard had heavy clay where water drained slowly and roots struggled to breathe. However, other sections had rocky and sandy patches with very little silt and clay, and water passed through too quickly. It was clear that this soil was not one uniform entity but a mosaic of conditions, each needing its own care. Though one thing was obvious it needed care everywhere.

Before doing anything else, and in disagreement to the prevalent consensus, I stopped all chemical use. No pesticides, no insecticides, no fungicides, no weedicides, in fact no ‘cides’ of any kind. No even any chemical fertilisers. This single decision changed the entire trajectory of the orchard. The land needed time to heal. I allowed old forest trees and fruit trees to grow naturally. This simple act of stepping back and letting the place become wilder worked like a reset switch for the ecosystem. Over the next seasons the trees grew taller and fuller. Their leaf fall layered the orchard floor with natural mulch. This set in motion the quiet work of decomposition. Leaves broke down. Fungi sent out their hyphae. Bacteria and protists returned. Soil organisms that had been suppressed by tilling and chemical fertilisers slowly regained their place. I could see the change happening. Each year the presence of mushrooms increased. Their fruiting bodies were a sign that the fungal networks underground were becoming strong again. As the soil revived, even the older fruit trees showed renewed vigour and the quality of the fruit improved.

Once the natural processes were underway, I began adding material to build structure and restore balance. I collected dry leaves from the orchard and nearby woodland. I used wood shavings, compost and occasionally old manure too. I broadcast white Dutch clover seeds to act as a cover crop, fix nitrogen and protect the soil surface. Wildflower seeds from the region added diversity and supported beneficial insects. I also used natural amendments like neem cake, sea kelp, fish meal, blood meal and bone meal at places where the initial soil testing report had given extremely concerning results. These natural sources are rich in trace minerals and organic compounds that nurture microbial activity.

With time and reading I realised that the true correction is not only about supplying nutrients but about restoring the ratios among them. Plants do not need huge amounts of every element. They need balance. In fact they do better in deficient soils but where the elements are in proper ratio, compared to soils rich in elements but with grossly altered ratios of these elements with respect to each other. Soil must also have the capacity to hold nutrients and release them through cation and anion exchange. (Let’s discuss CEC levels when we meet if it interests you). This depends on organic matter, clay content and the biological activity in the soil. A nutrient imbalance can cause deficiencies even when the nutrients are present. Correcting the internal chemistry of the soil was as important as adding any external input.

One of the most important insights that I have gained is the role of microbes in nutrient uptake. A major portion of what plants absorb does not enter directly through roots. Instead it is mediated by an extraordinary community of microbes. They convert minerals into plant available forms. They transport nutrients along fungal networks. They protect roots by competing with harmful organisms. They even help plants communicate stress and send defensive signals. By removing chemicals and reducing soil disturbance, I allowed this underground community to rebuild itself. The microbes did what they have evolved to do for millions of years, and the trees responded with greater health.

The work of building soil never truly ends. Every passing season I continue adding organic matter, encouraging ground cover, reducing compaction and letting natural processes unfold. I watch the soil becoming darker and crumbly. I watch it hold water through dry spells. I watch fungal threads weave through the leaf litter. I see more insects, more earthworms and more signs of life with each year.

Soil building is one topic I can spend hours discussing. If anyone is interested, join me in a discussion over a cup of coffee, while listening to the songs of the blue-whistling thrush and smelling the scent of the moist soil below our feet. I’ll be more than happy.

The orchard today stands on a foundation that is still quietly growing and improving. There is something humbling and beautiful in knowing that the most important work happens below the surface, hidden from the eye. It is said that a handful of healthy soil holds more organisms than there are people on our planet. These tiny creatures create resilience, flavour, vitality and longevity in every tree. Soil building is patient work. It invites us to observe, to understand, to cooperate with nature rather than control it. It is a practice that rewards not only this generation of trees but the ones yet to come.

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Another autumn is drawing to a close. Winter has tiptoed in. Yesterday, I woke to find the orchard floor covered in frost, a silver shimmer over fallen leaves and sleeping roots. Today the frost was not there. Just a few more days and then, it will be there every morning.

For the past few days, I have been busy mulching the young fruit trees with compost. A couple of inches spread gently around each new plant is my way of tucking them in before winter deepens. The fruit trees like apples, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, and many others – they may be hardy but when the plants are young, they are still tender and need some winter care.

There are many schools of thought on how best to apply compost. The usual advice is to spread it generously around the plant and then work it lightly into the upper layer of soil using a fork or spade. I prefer a simpler method: just spread it on top. This layer of compost serves as a mulch, keeping weeds from competing with the young plants and helping the soil retain moisture. More importantly, it allows the underground fungal networks to thrive undisturbed. Soil is an important resource and disturbing it again and again is not what I believe in.

The compost also guards the tender roots from sudden drops in temperature and dryness. Though the nutrients mostly stay near the surface, winter rains, frost, and melting snow gradually carry them down. The earthworms, those quiet little workers, do the rest.

So I have been going about the orchard, spreading compost, or to be precise, vermicompost, though I will spare myself the longer word, around all the new trees. The black gold around the plant somehow makes them stand out against the back drop of orchard floor and even looks beautiful. Maybe it is beautiful to me since I can see how important and useful it is to the new plants!

People often ask whether adding compost at this time might delay a tree’s winter rest or even coax it to put out new buds. In truth, a plant’s hibernation depends more on the length of days and nights and on the fall in ambient temperature. Chemical fertilisers rich in nitrogen can sometimes trick a tree into thinking spring has returned. But organic compost keeps the nutrients locked and releases them slowly and gently, never in a rush. It nourishes the soil, keeps the flow of nutrients steady, but does not wake what wishes to sleep.

Still, as a precaution, I begin with the evergreens, the citrus trees, and then move to those that have already gone to sleep. Apples and pears are bare and dreaming now, cherries and apricots too. The peaches are still halfway between wakefulness and slumber, so I shall wait a few more days for them, and then turn to the plums, some of which are still reluctant to call it a night. In fact, the lazy Green-Gage which was reluctant to wake up in the spring is now reluctant to go to sleep, almost like present day teenagers.

It takes several days to finish the round of mulching, but that suits me fine. By the time I reach the last of the trees, winter will have settled in fully, and the orchard will be fast asleep beneath its warm blanket of compost and frost. I will also be spreading some dry grass on the root zones of brambles and berries. My wife says that it works wonders for strawberries, I doubt it, but for the peace of my mind, I have learnt not to disagree.

Another thought that often crosses my mind is the time these trees take to grow up. Some were planted four or five years ago, others as recently as the last rainy season in July. Almost all are doing well, though their growth is slow and unhurried. They seem in no rush to reach the sky.

It is a quiet reminder of how different their rhythm is from ours. We look for change, for progress, for results, and we want them quickly. Trees, on the other hand, follow their own patient clock. They will bear fruit and nuts when the time is right. Some of the nut trees I planted will not yield their best harvest in my lifetime but will offer their bounty to another generation. They will grow tall and strong, casting shade for those yet to come.

Planting them filled me with quiet happiness. I often sit beneath an old oak tree and think of the one who planted it. I do not know who that person was, perhaps a gardener, perhaps a squirrel that buried an acorn and forgot about it. Whoever it was, they left behind something generous. In summer, I sit under the oak for its cool shade, and in winter, I still sit there, warmed by the sun that reaches me from the South while the tree shields me from the wind.

There is a quiet continuity in that thought. We plant, we nurture, we wait, and one day, someone else sits in the shade. So I go on spreading compost around the young plants, tending to them with care. Some will bear fruit for me, my family, and my friends to enjoy, and some will remain as a gift for those who come after.

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There is a quiet disappointment for people like us that only those who work with the soil can truly understand. It begins with the vision of planting a new tree, of filling an empty corner of the orchard with something that will one day bear fruit and shade. But that excitement fades quickly when I start looking for good-quality cultivars.

Most nurseries are simply shops that sell whatever they can. Labels are vague, sometimes misleading, and often no one can tell me the exact rootstock used. For a naturalist who believes in diversity, resilience, and the quiet art of matching the right tree to the right soil, this lack of precision feels disheartening.

Recently, I was informed by a friend who heard from another of his friends, that a nursery about two hours away by car had some good variety of blackberry plants. I had been searching for healthy brambles for a long time and thought they would make a fine addition to my orchard. Acting as a lower layer in my food forest, they would provide delicious berries for breakfast and for preserves. I called up the owner of the nursery, who confirmed that they had some large-fruited, air-layered blackberry saplings in good health. My confidence rose at the prospect of growing juicy berries in the years to come. While imagining them, I could picture a bowl of fresh blackberries for breakfast, or canned into a preserve to be enjoyed under winter sun with toast and butter.

After a couple of wrong turns, and with help from some kind children, I reached the small village where the nursery was located. In the hills, popular map apps don’t always work well, but the journey itself felt promising. Excited and happy to see the size of the saplings in the nursery, I asked for the blackberries. To my astonishment, the owner pointed out a group of saplings that did not resemble blackberries in any way. They were Jamun, the Java plum (Syzygium cumini). When I questioned him, he insisted that these were indeed “black berries”, spelled with a space in between, fruits that were black in colour. I had to explain, somewhat wearily, that just because a fruit is black doesn’t make it a black berry and this one was not even a berry in a true sense.

Disheartened, I still ended up buying a few other fruit trees as consolation, feeling that the long trip, time, and fuel needed some justification. On the drive back, I couldn’t help thinking about how common this confusion has become.

There seems to be a vast misunderstanding when it comes to fruits in India. Mandarins and Tangerines are called oranges, oranges themselves are called malta, and clementines – few seem to know them at all. Raspberries are confused with cape gooseberries, which are called rasbhari in Hindi, meaning “filled with juice”. Blackcurrants are passed off as everything from falsa (Grewia asiatica) to black mulberries, and even the black mulberries themselves are frequently sold as blackberries. Lime is sold as lemon, and lemons are advertised as “big lemons”. Gooseberries are mostly unheard of, and some knowledgeable chaps mention amla, the Indian Gooseberry instead.

The nursery owners usually have no idea about the rootstocks or scions used. Ask them which cultivar of apple it is, and you’ll get a blank stare, followed by a confident answer by some nursery manager or owner naming a popular apple variety that looks nothing like the plant in front of you.

Online nurseries are an even bigger pain. Most of them cater to city dwellers who are content growing anything green on their balconies. The nurseries earn well from them. It doesn’t matter which variety is sent, as long as the plant looks good. Out of my desperation for good verities, I sometimes end up ordering online too, only to be reminded not to do it again. Recently, I ordered a pomelo and some kumquats. Instead of pomelo, a plumeria arrived, and instead of sweet kumquats, I received narangi plants, the sour chinese ornamental mandarins often sold as decorative plants.

Another incident comes to mind. I had been searching for sour cherry trees for my orchard and finally found a nursery that claimed to have them. After several days of messages and photo exchanges, I travelled there only to find that the owner, a businessman from NCR who ran the nursery as a side business, was not present. His gardener, more of a watchman, showed me the trees. Thankfully, they looked healthy and well-grafted. I asked if they were the sour variety. He replied that they were sour when raw and sweet when ripe, which, in a literal sense, was true, though it missed the point entirely. I wanted the true sour cherries for preserves, the Prunus cerasus, not sweet cherries picked early for eating raw. A horticulturist or a nature fellow would know the difference.

No one seems to know about pollination requirements either. It is always better to do one’s own research or take along someone who truly understands the plants. Not every fruit tree is self-fertile and many need cross-pollination, And to top it not all varieties are compatible. A Japanese plum cannot pollinate a European one. An oriental citrus fruit cannot pollinate a European citrus. These small details make all the difference between success and failure in an orchard. Blossoming times of various fruits also matter when it comes to cross-pollination.

When I walk through my own orchard, I realise how much patience this search demands. Each tree here has its own story. Some were grafted by local hands and have adapted beautifully to the mountain climate. Others were bought with hope but failed to thrive. The older varieties – pears with a pink blush, apples scented faintly of wildflowers (like hara pichola and rhymer), apricots with a taste of honey, green small plums that tasted like mini sugar filled truffles are vanishing fast. Perhaps the true cultivars worth preserving are not the ones displayed in glossy nursery catalogues but the ones that have survived neglect, storms, and time. Those that continue to bear fruit quietly in old courtyards and forgotten terraces. An orchard with a mix of modern cultivars and old heirloom varieties is a dream that I have been chasing.

Lack of good-quality saplings continues to be one of the biggest challenges I face year after year. It has been almost a decade since I have been searching for good brambles like gooseberries, currants, and some delicious cold hardy fruits.

Despite the challenges, every time I manage to graft a cutting from an old, hardy tree, it feels like reclaiming a bit of what’s being lost. A small act of hope, rooted in the belief that the orchard, like nature itself, rewards patience and care far more than convenience.

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There is a quiet memory hidden beneath the soil. It is not the kind I can see or touch, but one that trees, roots and microbes share. It is a memory that shapes the fate of new life planted where old life once stood.

Sometimes, when an old fruit tree dies, I have to replace it with a new one. There is always a small ache in doing so, as if I am saying goodbye to an old friend, however it has to be done. One village elder once told me never to plant the same type of tree in the same spot. “If an apple tree dies,” he said, “it is better to plant a peach, a plum, or an apricot, but not another apple.” He did not know why, but his advice carried the quiet wisdom of generations who had watched and learned from the land.

When I began to look into it and spoke with others, I started to understand. The tree that once stood there had grown strong and deep-rooted. Its mature roots were thick and widespread, capable of resisting the pathogens that live in the soil. But a young sapling, with tender and fragile roots, faces the same earth without the same strength. It cannot fight those invisible enemies in quite the same way.

There is another reason too. Each species of tree feeds differently. One might draw more of certain minerals or nutrients than another. The difference may be small, but after years of growth it becomes important. So planting a different kind of fruit tree gives the soil a chance to rest and renew itself. It allows balance to return.

I have seen this in my own orchard. The soil remembers. Over time, the roots of a tree create their own world beneath the surface. Bacteria, fungi and countless tiny creatures adapt to that tree’s way of life. Some become partners, helping it grow, while others turn into quiet adversaries, feeding on its remains. When I plant the same kind of tree again in the same spot, it finds a world already shaped against it. The soil feels reluctant, almost weary. In the early days of my orchard, I replaced a few old apple trees with new ones. Very few of them survived, and those that did still struggle after many years, their growth hesitant and slow.

But when I plant something different, the story changes completely. A cherry where an apple once stood, or a chestnut where a plum once grew, seems to find the ground more welcoming. The places where I replaced apples with plums are now a joy to see in summer—strong, leafy trees laden with dark, juicy fruit. The soil organisms do not yet know what to make of the newcomer. Gradually, new relationships form. The soil learns to recognise and accept its new resident, and the young roots spread with quiet confidence. It feels like watching renewal take shape in silence, a reminder that variety and change breathe life back into tired ground.

I have also noticed that trees seem to follow their own kind, almost like families with shared habits and needs. Apples and pears, for instance, behave in similar ways, so replacing an old apple with a pear or even a plum does not help much. They belong to the same group of fruits known as pomes. Likewise, plums, cherries, peaches and apricots all fall under the group of stone fruits, and planting one after another from this family often brings the same problems, though to a lesser extent than planting the exact same type. It helps to think in terms of these natural groupings when deciding what to plant next. Choosing a tree from a different group gives the soil a better chance to recover and start afresh.

I often think about how closely this idea of replant disease and requirement of a change mirrors the lives of people and the way we adapt. Migration, which we see all around us, seems to follow the same pattern. Hill folk who have lived here for generations face the same struggles year after year. The absence of good healthcare, the lack of steady income, the constant raids of monkeys, wild boars and other pests on their crops. Children of hill folk find it difficult to flourish here. Many leave for the cities, hoping for a better life. And at the same time, people from cities, weary of noise, pollution and crowds, come here seeking peace.

It is much like planting a new kind of tree in the place of an old one. The hill people take their endurance and patience to a new landscape and slowly adapt to that city life. The city people come to the hills with a desire for quiet and space, and sometimes they too grow roots here. They learn to live by the seasons and measure time by the play of sunlight and shadow.

But there are others who come with their own sealed worlds, carrying the city with them. They build homes that look out on forests but never touch the soil. They live in comfort, but never truly belong. They remind me of saplings planted in their pots, roots confined to their own soil even when placed in new ground.

For me, replant disease is more than a horticultural challenge. It is a lesson in regeneration. Life thrives when it moves, when it dares to begin again, when it meets the unfamiliar and learns from it. The soil, like people, needs rest and renewal. It must open itself to difference to stay fertile.

When I walk through my orchard and see an old stump beside a young sapling, I often think of this. The older trees lean with memory, their roots tracing the stories of what once was. The new sapling reaches towards the same sky, yet lives a different life. In its own quiet way, it is nature’s way of teaching me about change, about migration, and about how all living things find new life when they let go of the old.

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The mornings are changing again. The light arrives a little later now, filtering softly through the mist that rests like a thin shawl over the orchard. I stepped out early today, before the sun had fully decided to wake, and found the air already carrying a hint of winter, that quiet chill which brushes the skin like a memory of snow. There was also a moist winter smell which is hard to describe.

The plum and peach trees stood still, dignified, and drowsy, their leaves beginning to show flecks of yellow. Apples and apricots have already shed their leaves, and are already fast asleep. A gentle breeze wandered down from the hills, stirring the branches and carrying with it the faint fragrance of damp earth. Somewhere behind the apple trees, I heard the soft tuk-tuk of a woodpecker, followed by the lazy Tea-for-Two call of a yellow vented bulbul. They seemed in no hurry, as if the morning were meant entirely for unhurried music.

Closer to the ground, the world was awake in its own quiet way. A spider had built a fine web between two low branches of a plum tree, a perfect piece of art strung with dew drops that glistened like tiny beads. A ladybird inched across a dutch clover leaf, bright and deliberate, while a pair of dragonflies darted in and out of a shaft of sunlight that had found its way through the mist. I bent to watch a black ant struggling with a crumb twice its size, determined, unstoppable, and perhaps wiser than most of us. My kid pointed out a bumblebee visiting a fuchsia flower.

After a while, I fetched my pruning shears and trimmed a few branches that had been covered with dodder, that curious golden vine that wraps itself around anything green and thriving. I had cleared some young trees just a few days back but missed this one. It looked almost beautiful in the morning light, though it is a silent thief of life. Once that was done, I planted a few cuttings of crabapple branches in pots, hoping to propagate them. Crabapples are wonderful companions in an orchard, good pollinators and sturdy stock for grafting other cultivars. There is something quietly satisfying about giving life a new chance, even in the smallest of ways. Simple things like propagating plants or grafting makes me very happy.

Later in the morning, while sitting and working in the orchard, I received a call from a friend who wanted to know which organic fertiliser he should buy: compost, vermicompost, or manure. I smiled, for such questions always remind me how simple and fascinating soil life really is. Compost is decomposed organic matter, usually a mix of garden waste, dry leaves, and kitchen scraps. Vermicompost is compost broken down with the help of earthworms, a process that I personally think deserves to be called Wormicompost, though I was not the one to have spelt it first. Manure, on the other hand, is decomposed cow dung or similar animal waste.

For me, the difference lies not only in the process but also in what each brings to the soil. Compost, when properly made, reaches high temperatures that kill most unwanted seeds. Vermicompost helps increase the earthworm population and is rich in plant nutrients, though it stays cooler during decomposition. Manure remains the coolest of the three and carries a wealth of fungal spores, including those that help establish mycelial networks around plant roots. I use all three, depending on where they are needed. Over time, however, I hope to make the orchard self-sustaining, so that such additions become unnecessary and the land nurtures itself through its own cycles of life and decay.

As I explained these differences to my friend, I noticed a plump partridge walking up and down between some old apple trees, inspecting the ground with great seriousness. Birds, too, add their own offerings (poop) to the soil as they wander about. Having wildlife in the orchard always feels like a blessing, a sign that the land is alive and balanced. I hope to see more animals here someday, perhaps even more hares and many more birds. Maybe, in future, I will have my own domesticated animals like sheep and hens too.

Up in the trees, a flock of white-throated thrushes burst into view, their loud, cheerful chatter echoing through the valley. They moved in one great wave of sound and wings before settling in another patch of trees. I stood for a while, watching them, feeling the wind turn cooler against my face.

Winter will come soon. The trees will rest, the ground will sleep, and the hills will wear their silver mornings once more. Yet for now, the orchard still hums with quiet life and gentle work, waiting for the frost to arrive.

Autumn and the early days of winter are also a good time to feed the soil with organic fertilisers, once the trees have settled fully into their hibernation. The nutrients then sink gradually into the earth, carried down by snow and soft winter drizzles. The layer of compost or manure also serves as a mulch, keeping the roots of young trees moist and shielding them from the bite of frost.

As I walked back, the first rays of the sun touched the dewdrops on the grass, and the whole orchard seemed to sparkle.

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Every once in a while, I take a slow and unhurried stroll through the orchard. It is not the usual kind of walk meant for exercise or leisure. This one is slower and quieter, an observational walk to see how everything is doing, and to lend a helping hand here and there. I carry a small sling bag with a few essentials: a pair of secateurs, some alcohol swabs, a small trowel, a piece of cloth, and gardening gloves.

Reviving an orchard that lay neglected for decades and turning it into a self-sustaining food forest takes both time and patience. The trees I planted over the years are finally beginning to show their strength. For the first couple of years, they simply stood still, waiting perhaps to make sure they belonged. Once the fungal networks took hold in the soil and the roots grew confident, the trees began to flourish.

With no tilling, other plants too find their way into the mix, some helpful, some harmful. One persistent troublemaker is dodder, a thin, leafless vine that winds itself around stems and feeds on the sap of young trees. Left unchecked, it can kill a plant. The best remedy is constant vigilance and removing it the moment it appears. Keeping the undergrowth trimmed helps, though cutting weeds too close to the soil can make it easier for fungal spores to reach the trees. A light, thick carpet of weeds under the canopy often traps these spores, protecting the young trunks, especially through spring and early summer.

As I walk, I stop by each tree, a few hundred companions I have come to know by sight. If I notice the orange threads of dodder starting to climb, I crouch down and pull them out carefully. Sometimes a branch has to go too if it has been infected. I look for suckers and water sprouts, the greedy shoots that drain a tree’s strength. Those are trimmed as well.

I also have to resist a familiar temptation, pruning. I am not fond of shaping trees into tidy forms. I prefer to let them grow as they wish, to find their natural rhythm. But most of my fruit trees are grafted cultivars, and a little guidance is sometimes necessary. However, this is not the right season for pruning though. It is autumn, and a cut now might push them to sprout tender new leaves that will not survive the coming frost. So, I hold back the urge.

Now and then, I come across a young tree that did not make it. I note its place, and as I walk further, new spaces for planting begin to reveal themselves. Curiously, when I buy new saplings, I often cannot think of where to put them, but on these walks, the land itself seems to suggest the right spots. Digging a few planting holes in advance always helps. It scatters the effort over multiple days instead of one big task at a stretch, and also makes the planting locations very obvious.

Today, I also spotted a small bird’s nest tucked inside a pear tree. A few chicks were still there, late arrivals to the season. I made a mental note to keep everyone away from that tree for a few weeks. They will need some peace before the nights grow colder.

A few cement planters that had been lying unused caught my eye. I decided to clean them and give them to the neighbours. I have realised that my heart lies more in growing food than flowers, though my family occasionally scolds me for neglecting the latter. Fewer planters will mean fewer wilted flowers to explain. Am I smart? ;-)

I sat for a while on the bench overlooking part of the orchard and the valley beyond. The late afternoon sun had warmed it nicely. Around it, I had planted grapevines years ago hoping they would climb the trellis and lend a Mediterranean touch. The soil there is poor and the vines have struggled, but perhaps they have toughened up now. With a little vermicompost this winter, they might reward me next summer. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

The orchard is still a work in progress, not yet the self-sufficient haven I dream of, but every season takes it a step closer.

Farther ahead stand the young plum trees planted last winter. All of them are doing well, their leaves dense and healthy, the short internodes telling me they enjoyed good sunlight. Soon the leaves will dry and fall. The soil here is heavy clay, and I will have to lighten it with organic matter and a touch of gypsum. Another note added to my growing list.

Beyond the plums lies the spot marked for the new greenhouse. I have been waiting for months, though waiting has its own pace in the hills. Here, things move slowly, almost lazily, as if time itself has no hurry. At first, I found myself growing impatient, muttering under my breath at each delay. But over time, the mountains taught me a quieter lesson. You cannot rush anything here. Not the rain, not the ripening of fruit, not even the delivery of a greenhouse. What once felt like a delay of weeks now stretches into years, and somehow, that feels perfectly natural. I hope my greenhouse will arrive this year.

Below that lie my Hügelkultur beds, built from old logs and wooden planks. The rains have left their mark on them, softening the wood and causing small damages here and there. They have held up well, considering their age, but a little care will set them right again. Another quiet task added to my list, and perhaps a pleasant one for a cool afternoon.

On the way back, I noticed an old apple tree covered in thick lichens. I had not seen them before. Tomorrow, I will photograph and catalogue them. Thankfully, the air remains pure, and the avoidance of chemicals is slowly restoring balance to this small ecosystem.

The path is made of uneven stone slabs, placed just far enough apart to keep my shoes clean. I sometimes wish for a smoother path, but for now this simple one serves me well. A smoother and more polished path may look lovely and will cost money, but will also have a higher carbon footprint. Sticking with these old stones is simpler and more environment friendly.

I stood for a while, looking at the trees I had tended through the years, each one carrying a small story of patience, hope, and quiet labour. There is still much to do and much to learn, but that no longer feels daunting. By the time I returned to my room, the sun had dipped low. I had spotted dodder on three trees, all cleared now, removed many suckers and water-sprouts, made a list of things to be done and also made notes for a dozen new plantings. Perhaps this winter I will add some sour cherries and a few more brambles. Each small act, each rescued tree, feels like a quiet victory. Quite a productive stroll it was.

The orchard keeps growing, in its own rhythm, and in caring for it, I find myself changing too. Slowly, quietly, almost without realising, I am growing along with it.

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At the edge of my orchard, where the land slopes towards the valley and the view in front seems wider than elsewhere, I find myself facing a question that is less about choice and more about feelings. In the distance during clear winter days, which are quite frequent here, I can enjoy a panoramic view of snow covered Himalayan peaks. It is a sight that feels both timeless and majestic. On some days, they seem to lean in a lot closer and that keeps me mesmerized. The question I keep asking myself – should I thicken the northern area of my orchard and garden with more trees (the area with a view of the snow-peaks), filling the space with fruit and shade, or should I leave it open so that each winter the snow peaks stand clear against the horizon? These are decisions in life that are not about right or wrong but about what kind of beauty we wish to live with.

Within the orchard itself I have already planted generously. Fruit trees are intermingled with forest trees, and among them rise tall oaks, hollies, alders, rhododendrons, and conifers. These trees are more than companions. They act as wind barriers. In summer strong gusts sweep through the valley with enough force to topple heavy metal chairs or tear roofs from homes. The trees that stand tall in front absorb that force and shelter the orchard and house alike but at the cost of the open view before me.

It is not only my own dilemma. I once asked my followers on social media whether they would choose trees or an unobstructed view. Most voted for trees, which I take as a hopeful sign. People are slowly waking up to the fact that we need more and more trees. Yet I also sense that this conviction wavers when personal comfort is at stake. Guests who visit often remark on the tall trees that rise into the sightline. Some gently advise me to lop or coppice them in order to restore what they call the beautiful panoramic view. On asking my neighbours, most advice on having tall trees, yet everyone seems to be longing for an open view in front when it comes to their own personal properties.

But my own heart leans towards the trees. A dense canopy shields against wind, filters the air and creates a retreat that feels hidden away from the world. The south side of my place is managed differently. There I keep fewer trees and most are deciduous, so that when they shed their leaves the low winter sun can spill warmth onto the house and the lawn. Between these two aspects, dense northern canopy and lighter southern edge, I find balance. And within the trees themselves I prefer natural windows, gaps in the canopy that let the snow peaks show through, framed rather than lost.

Perhaps the real choice is not between trees and view but between two ways of seeing. Trees pull the gaze inward into leaf and fruit and the bird resting on the branch. Peaks pull the gaze outward into immensity and distance. Both are necessary. One roots me, the other humbles me. Sometimes, while clicking photographs of the snow-peaks, I frequently end up framing them inside a natural ‘window’ or at times with an interesting foreground.

So for now I lean towards restraint. I plant enough to shelter the orchard but not so much that I lose the winter mountains. Some trees I allow to rise tall, their crowns holding back the winds. Others I keep lightly lopped at the lower branches, shaping small windows through which the peaks can quietly appear. Still, I know that tall trees in front can change the sense of vastness and openness that some people so deeply cherish. From my office window I can always enjoy an open view of the peaks, since it sits at a greater height. There are a few other spots on the property that offer the same gift, so the view will never truly be lost.

When thought of more deeply, an orchard is never only about what grows within it. It is also about the openings between, the pauses, the silences, the lines of sky and mountain that appear between trunks. On a philosophical note, our lives are much the same, shaped not only by what we build and achieve but also by the spaces in between – the balance of solitude and community, of labour and rest.

As winter approaches, I will plant a few more trees, both nut and fruit. They will offer shelter and food to the birds, and provide my family and friends with a harvest to enjoy and remember.

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Walking through my orchard I often feel that the true magic lies beneath the surface. The soil is alive with a quiet community of fungi and microorganisms that work tirelessly to keep the trees healthy and the harvest abundant. Over the years I have learnt to observe and nurture these unseen allies and they have rewarded me with stronger plants and richer flavours.

The foundation of all this life is a living soil. It is not an inert mass of dirt but a breathing community of earthworms, fungi, bacteria, and tiny insects that create a balanced ecosystem. Earthworms tunnel through the soil drawing in air and moisture while leaving behind castings and poop that are rich in plant available nutrients. Their gentle movement keeps the soil loose and well drained which allows roots to grow deeper and stronger. Interwoven with their tunnels are vast mycelial networks that connect trees and plants in a silent exchange of minerals water and even chemical signals. I often imagine these filaments as connections from the popular ‘Avatar’ film.

Protozoa, nematodes, springtails, and other tiny creatures graze on microbes recycle nutrients and keep populations in balance. Layers of organic matter from leaf litter and compost feed this community while stable soil aggregates create pockets of air and moisture.

One of the most remarkable companions in the soil is mycorrhizal fungi. These delicate networks of filaments attach themselves to the roots of fruit trees and extend far into the earth. They bring water and nutrients such as phosphorus and trace minerals to the trees in exchange for simple sugars. This partnership helps the roots reach places they could never explore on their own. I have noticed that trees with a thriving mycorrhizal network are more resilient during dry spells and flourish better when the conditions are more conducive. Now I use their commercially available spores to coat the roots while planting new fruit trees.

Talking of fungi, Trichoderma is another beneficial fungus that plays the role of a gentle guardian. It colonises the root zone and competes with harmful pathogens. By simply being present it keeps many soil borne diseases in check. I often apply a compost tea rich in Trichoderma to give the young saplings a strong start. It works well along with mycorrhizal fungi. Another ally that deserves special mention is Metarhizium anisopliae. This remarkable fungus acts as a natural insect control by infecting and suppressing harmful pests that live in the soil. It targets pests such as beetle larvae and other root dwelling insects while leaving beneficial organisms unharmed. I introduce Metarhizium into my orchard through well prepared compost or bio formulations and it quietly builds a protective layer beneath the trees. Its presence allows the orchard to stay vibrant without relying on chemical insecticides.

Among the microscopic workers there are countless bacteria that quietly enrich the soil. Nitrogen fixing bacteria such as Azotobacter capture nitrogen from the air and convert it into a form that plants can use while phosphate solubilising bacteria unlock minerals bound in soil particles and make them available to the trees. These helpers reduce the need for outside fertilisers and help keep the orchard and lawn self sustaining. Over time I have observed an interesting shift. As an orchard matures and the soil is left largely undisturbed the balance of nitrogen fixation gradually moves from bacteria to fungi. In old forests and long established orchards with stable living soil it is the fungal networks that carry most of the responsibility for bringing atmospheric nitrogen into the ecosystem.

Another valuable friend in the root zone is Azospirillum, a soil bacterium that forms close associations with plant roots and stimulates the growth of fine roots and lateral branches. It produces natural growth hormones that improve nutrient absorption and moisture uptake and can also fix small amounts of atmospheric nitrogen, though its main strength lies in enhancing root vitality rather than supplying nitrogen. Some strains help prime the plant’s immune system and subtly alter the plant’s scent profile, making it less attractive to pests and more appealing to beneficial insects. By supporting stronger roots and triggering natural defences Azospirillum quietly strengthens the orchard’s resilience and adds a gentle insecticidal layer without disturbing the balance of the living soil.

Pseudomonas fluorescens is yet another beneficial soil bacterium that protects plant roots by suppressing harmful fungi and bacteria through the production of natural antibiotics and enzymes. It also promotes root growth and enhances nutrient uptake, helping plants stay healthy and resilient without chemical treatments.

The microorganisms present in ready to use commercial waste decomposer concentrates bring yet another layer of vitality. This culture contains a blend of fast acting decomposers that break down organic matter with impressive speed. I use these to make a liquid fertilizer by adding to a mix of water, jaggery, and stinging nettle. When applied to compost heaps or directly to mulch layers this liquid fertilizer accelerates the transformation of plant residues into rich humus. The resulting compost teems with beneficial bacteria and fungi that invigorate the soil and feed the trees with a steady release of nutrients. On spraying the soil, it helps make the soil loamy and even seems to increase the earthworm population. Another interesting biological product that I use is Bokashi, commercially available as spores mixed with barn. Bokashi fermentation offers a different but equally valuable contribution. The Bokashi process uses a special mix of lactic acid bacteria yeasts and phototrophic microbes to ferment kitchen scraps and garden waste. Instead of rotting the material ferments and preserves more of its nutrients. When buried in the orchard soil the fermented matter decomposes quickly and enriches the microbial life in the root zone.

Do I use any chemicals in my orchard? Yes, I do. However these are ones that are not considered harmful to the soil. Commercially available formulations of garlic oil, humic acid, seaweed extracts (kelp) are some such examples. Sometimes, I also add various ‘meals’ prepared using different organic components like bone, fish, blood. With time, as the soil in my garden and orchard develops a stable, self-sustaining structure, I hope to reduce these additions even further. I do have to use neem oil at times, but I prefer to avoid it since it harms the beneficial insects as well.

To support the hidden network under the surface of soil, I follow practices that keep the soil undisturbed and rich in organic matter. Mulching with fallen leaves and compost provides food for fungi and bacteria. Avoiding harsh chemicals allows these organisms to thrive and maintain a natural balance. My orchard’s soil still has a long way to go but I feel that we are fast progressing towards the soil that it should have. Soil that is softer and more fragrant, with a dark crumbly loamy texture.

Every time I see a new flush of blossoms or taste a fruit with unexpected sweetness or flavour, I am reminded that the credit belongs as much to these silent hidden partners as to the sun and rain. Caring for them is not just good horticulture. It is a way of honouring the sacred web of life that sustains us all.

Note for my readers: Use this post as a guide for your garden/orchard. I will be happy to discuss if you need any more information.

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One of the greatest challenges I have faced in developing my orchard has been sourcing high-quality plants. The local saplings often fall short – they are either unhealthy or simply not the cultivars I am looking for. For those unfamiliar with the term, a cultivar is a cultivated variety of a plant. Even private nurseries located farther away rarely carry collections suited to our specific climate and geography. Finding the right plants has always been a slow, uncertain, and sometimes frustrating process.

Being a warm country with tropical and sub-tropical climates, India makes it far easier to find good mango saplings than plum or cherry saplings. This meant that for many of the fruits I wanted, I had to look much harder, travel further, and experiment more.

My first purchases came from a small nursery in a nearby town. I bought a few apple cultivars grafted onto plants grown from seedlings. The bare-root saplings were small, with weak roots that struggled to take hold. I planted them with hope and care, but many were lost when goats from neighbouring houses found their way inside and nibbled on the tender shoots. I had a barbed wire fence, yet somehow they managed to sneak in, leaving me with the bitter lesson that even a small orchard can face unexpected challenges.I replaced the fence with a sturdy chain-link one.

Determined to do better, I next turned to a couple of private nurseries in Bhimtal. Their selection was limited, and the plants came in soil rather than as bare roots. The saplings were healthier and larger than those I had first purchased. In the same year, I took a leap and acquired some apple plants from a high-tech research centre. These had been propagated using tissue culture and grafted onto dwarfing rootstocks. They were expensive, and I had high hopes for them, but sadly, my orchard soil did not suit their growth. I realised then that a good sapling is fundamental for a thriving orchard, and many places simply do not meet that standard.

Learning from these experiences, I began sourcing trees from distant nurseries in other hill states and even imported some cultivars from Europe. These plants performed better than most, but the nurseries frequently ran out of the specific cultivars I sought, forcing me to adapt and wait. The government’s Horticulture Department also provides saplings from time to time, though they come without labels and with no information about the cultivar. It has been over two years since they promised to supply a greenhouse (polyhouse) I had already paid for, and I plan to follow up again today with yet another call.

Over time, I began to grow many of my own saplings, learning grafting techniques and, at times, using layering. Mastering these skills on my own has been challenging, yet immensely rewarding. Being able to nurture a healthy sapling from the very beginning, watching it grow and thrive, has brought a unique satisfaction. It has also allowed me to experiment with new cultivars and propagation methods, making the orchard more diverse and resilient.

So, to finally answer the question I should have addressed earlier – what is a perfect sapling? For me, it is a sapling of the cultivar I am searching for, with healthy, well-developed roots, standing about two feet tall, and featuring a perfectly healed graft union between the rootstock and scion. Ideally, deciduous fruit trees should be sold bare-root, while plants such as citrus are best purchased with a strong root ball in soil. The price should be reasonable, and it is preferable to source the sapling locally, so I can inspect it in person rather than relying on long-distance mail orders or online purchases. A sapling that is too small risks being lost in the natural ground cover that I maintain, while one that is too large takes longer to adapt, costs more, and often shows no real advantage in growth after a few years compared to a smaller sapling planted at the same time. Ultimately, it comes down to resilience and adaptability, qualities that allow the plant to thrive in its environment.

Looking around now, I marvel at how much the orchard has grown. Apples, pears, plums, and peaches, including nectarines, form the backbone of my fruit trees, accompanied by a few apricots, pomegranates, and an assortment of citrus fruits. Kiwi vines curl gracefully along the trellises, while brambles such as raspberries, blueberries, elderberries, and strawberries flourish underneath the trees. Among the nut trees, there are walnuts, pecans, almonds, hazelnuts, and macadamias, alongside numerous mulberries and even a couple of olive trees. Interspersed with these cultivated plants are forest trees – oaks, holly, conifers, acacia, and rhododendrons – that help blend the orchard seamlessly into its natural surroundings.

Even with such diversity, there is always room to grow. I hope to add good cultivars of gooseberries and currants, as well as additional fruit trees such as apricots, pomegranates, and other hardy varieties of fruits that are still not there in my orchard. Focusing on local species helps maintain a healthy ecosystem, while carefully chosen cultivars ensure a varied and high-quality harvest. I have left some spots vacant, patiently waiting for the right plants that will complement the orchard and provide the fresh, vibrant fruits I long to enjoy.

In many ways, the journey of building this orchard has been about learning, experimenting, and adapting. Each sapling planted, each cultivar sourced, and each new technique mastered has taught me something invaluable. What began as a simple dream of growing fruit has become a living, evolving story of resilience, curiosity, and the quiet joy of nurturing life from the soil up.

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The orchard I began looking after had been neglected for decades before it came into my care. Most of the old fruit trees had either died or were nearing the end of their lives. Over the last ten years, I have been replanting, slowly and patiently, introducing new varieties of fruit trees to bring the orchard back to life. Hybrid apples, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, various brambles, and many others.

One of the greatest challenges here has always been the soil. Much of it is heavy clay, unyielding when dry, turning into something close to stone, and sticky, waterlogged, and slushy when the rains arrive. Water tends to stagnate, making life hard both for the trees and for me.

When I first took over, I chose to step back and let the orchard breathe. For several years, I stopped tilling and completely gave up on chemicals. Weeds and wild bushes took over, but beneath the surface, their roots were doing quiet work. They loosened the soil, added organic matter, and slowly began turning that dense clay into something more loamy and forgiving. My no-spray policy further helped restore balance. Fungal networks began to thrive, earthworms returned in numbers, and with every season, the topsoil grew richer and more alive.

Nearly a decade later, the orchard feels like it has found its rhythm again. I keep the fruit trees clear of overpowering growth, trimming back the tallest weeds and bushes when needed, but I still don’t till and I still don’t spray. Nature does most of the work when we step aside and give her time.

Yet, planting a new tree here is still a lesson in patience. The soil remains heavy in many patches, and every pit I dig reminds me of its stubborn compactness. To help the young trees establish themselves, I amend the planting hole with a bit of gypsum to loosen the clay, and bonemeal to provide gentle, long-lasting nourishment. Over this, I add compost and generous layers of mulch. With time, gypsum improves soil texture, bonemeal supports strong roots, and mulch protects the soil life while feeding it steadily.

The more organic matter the soil holds, the healthier it becomes. Experts suggest that a good soil should contain at least 5% organic matter. My orchard soil hasn’t reached that richness yet, but with time and care, it is steadily improving. While most people pour their energy into building concrete walls, I find joy in building soil.

Soil doesn’t transform overnight. It takes years — sometimes many — but I’ve come to see that as a gift rather than a challenge. The slow pace at which clay softens, worms multiply, fungi spread, and humus builds is the same rhythm that reminds me what slow living truly is. In the orchard, there are no shortcuts, but there are rewards at every step. Nature may move slowly, but she always works wonders with time.

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There’s something deeply grounding about working with soil barehanded—the rich texture, the earthy scent, the quiet life it holds. Yesterday, I spent the whole day in my greenhouse, planting and repotting most of my plants. A few empty pots got a fresh mix of loamy soil enriched with a bit of vermicompost. Into these, I tucked woody cuttings of lavender and rosemary, just the right season for them to take root and begin their journey as new plants. The trick is to choose cuttings with a firm, woody base rather than tender green shoots, and to plant them deep enough so at least three nodes rest beneath the soil. I rarely use rooting hormones, though I wouldn’t mind if they were on hand. Living in a village without instant deliveries or online shops has a way of keeping my gardening simple, resourceful, and deeply satisfying.

Coming back to working with soil—it’s my shortcut to a calm, quiet place inside. The simple act of digging, planting, and feeling the earth between my fingers draws me into a state of relaxation and leaves me with a quiet sense of accomplishment. It makes me happy because it connects me to nature, awakens my senses, and gives me the purpose that comes from nurturing life.

Soil even has its own kind of medicine. Certain natural microorganisms in it can strengthen our immune system, reduce inflammation, and lift our mood by encouraging the brain to release serotonin. One of the most fascinating is Mycobacterium vaccae, a beneficial bacterium found in healthy soil that has been linked to reduced anxiety, improved mood, and better immune regulation.

Plants are also quiet teachers. Their slow, steady growth is a gentle reminder that meaningful progress doesn’t happen overnight—it unfolds at its own pace, in its own time. They show me the value of patience, the beauty of consistency, and the quiet strength in simply continuing, day after day. Every leaf that unfurls, every root that deepens, is proof that even the smallest daily efforts can create something lasting.

Every tiny bit of nature carries its own wisdom, but it only reveals itself when we slow down enough to notice. By observing and truly paying attention, we begin to understand not just the plants, but also ourselves—our rhythms, our needs, and our place in the greater cycle of life.

While tending to the plants, my thoughts drifted in and out—wandering from quiet philosophies to the simple peace of the moment. A dark red dragonfly drifted in through the open door. It hovered for a breath, the soft patter of raindrops tapping on the glass roof above and the distant music of a blue whistling thrush filling the warm air. With the lightest touch, it settled on the rim of a freshly planted pot, as if inspecting the tender cuttings for signs of life. For a moment, time slowed—the rain’s rhythm, the bird’s chirping, the dragonfly’s stillness all folding into the hush of the greenhouse. Then, with a sudden flicker of its thin glass like wings, it lifted off and slipped back into the open garden. It felt as though it had come to inspect my work, to make sure all was well. And it was. So was I—happy, content, and quietly proud as the day drew to a close.

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Late in the morning, after tending to some gardening tasks, I found myself resting under the shade of an old apricot tree. As usual, a flock of birds had gathered on the large holly tree in front of me. There were a few bulbuls, plenty of white-throated laughingthrushes, a couple of black-headed jays, and a solitary treepie.

But something felt different today.

This holly tree is a regular perch for many birds, and they usually face to my left—roughly southwest. Today, though, they were all turned in the opposite direction, their beaks pointed firmly toward the north-northeast. Every single one of them.

It took me a moment to realize why. The wind had shifted today. For days, it had been blowing steadily from the west. But now, brief gusts were sweeping in from the north. Not strong enough to signal a change in weather—just the kind of turbulence we often see here in Natadol.

Still, it was enough to change the birds’ orientation. It seems they instinctively face into the wind—perhaps a quirk of their natural flight readiness or a subtle piece of avian psychology. Whatever the reason, it’s fascinating to notice these quiet, rhythmic patterns in nature.

Come to think of it, the classic windvanes atop old buildings often feature a rooster. I wonder—was that a nod to how, on old farms, domesticated birds like chickens would sometimes perch on rooftops? Or was it simply inspired by the way birds naturally settle on tree branches, always aware of the wind’s direction?

Either way, it’s a charming blend of function and symbolism—using a bird to read the wind, just as nature intended. Living a slow life reconnects me to nature.

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People often tell me that any kind of agricultural activity is hard work. Let me set the record straight—it doesn’t feel that way to me. Over time, I’ve discovered the beauty of living slowly, embracing nature, and enjoying the abundant gift of healthy, delicious fruits. The secret? Working in harmony with nature itself.

When planting fruit trees, I focus on building a strong foundation. From carefully preparing the soil to introducing beneficial mycorrhizal fungi, I ensure the roots have everything they need to thrive. Once the trees are in the ground, I keep the surrounding soil mulched, and then nature takes over. The untamed soil—alive with so-called weeds and intricate fungal networks—becomes a bustling hub of nutrients, quietly doing its magic.

The beauty of this slow, mindful approach is that it frees me to savor the moments in between. As the trees grow, I often find myself sitting with a warm cup of coffee, daydreaming about the bounty of fruits that will one day grace my table. Of course, the trees need care now and then, but even those moments are special. Pruning, for instance, isn’t just a chore; it’s a meditative experience. Each cut feels intentional, filled with hope for what’s to come—the buds that will emerge next spring, transforming into vibrant branches, leaves, or blossoms. Adding compost is another deeply satisfying ritual. I can almost feel the soil beneath my hands becoming richer and more fertile with every passing season. It’s as if the earth itself is responding to my care, turning into a loamy, life-giving foundation for my trees.

This, to me, is happiness—a quiet, profound joy found in working alongside nature, in watching life grow and flourish, one season at a time. This is how I enjoy my slow life.

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Plucking ripe apples in the rainy season is an incredible feeling! Our naturally grown, chemical-free apples and pears are a joy to harvest, especially with a light drizzle adding to the experience. Each bushnell fills up with the promise of homemade jams and chutneys. We’re also excited to share the fruits of our labor with friends and neighbors, gifting them these fresh, delicious treats.

Everyone in the family comes together, baskets in hand, ready for the day’s harvest. We wander among the trees, gathering what fruits we can, while leaving plenty for the birds, squirrels, and other wild visitors to enjoy. The children, with their tiny hands, gleefully pluck the low-hanging treasures. I reach for the ones midway up, sometimes stretching on tiptoe for that perfect ripe one, while my garden helper climbs the ladder to claim the highest prizes. Harvest time isn’t just about the fruit, it’s about laughter, togetherness, and the joy of sharing the moment.

Our approach to horticulture itself relies on nature’s own pest control. Ladybirds play a crucial role in keeping aphids in check, ensuring our plants remain healthy without the need for harmful chemicals. Birds, too, are our allies, helping to control various insects that could otherwise damage our crops. They help us and so we give them back by leaving behind some fruits on every tree for their consumption. By working with nature, we not only enjoy healthier produce but also contribute to a balanced ecosystem.

Even the jams we make are for our own consumption. Crafted using traditional techniques and free of any chemicals, these jams are a true labor of love. Our family enjoys them with the assurance that they are entirely natural and free from any harmful substances.

Bonding with family over life’s simple joys, while nurturing the earth through chemical-free horticulture, feels like the truest way to live.

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Certain fruits can be harvested when they’re still unripe from the tree or shrub, and they gradually ripen over the following days as they’re stored. To aid in this process, these fruits are sometimes wrapped in paper. Chiku and Papaya are prime examples of such fruits. On the other hand, fruits like Pears undergo ripening over time, but if picked prematurely, they tend to soften rather than retain their desired crunchiness. While some prefer this softer texture, others enjoy the crispness of freshly picked pears.

Berries such as strawberries and mulberries cease ripening once they’re plucked from their mother plant. It’s best to wait for them to fully mature before indulging in their flavor and sweetness.

When it comes to strawberries, I rely on their color to gauge their ripeness. A fully ripe strawberry should boast a uniform red hue, devoid of any white streaks or large green patches. To safeguard them from moisture, I take a simple precaution: laying down dry leaves as mulch beneath the plants, ensuring the fruits don’t spoil from prolonged contact with damp soil. Additionally, I discreetly tuck the strawberries beneath their own green foliage to keep them inconspicuous to birds. While our orchard offers an abundance of mulberries for our feathered friends to enjoy, I make an effort to shield the few strawberries that we have from their attention.

Speaking of mulberries, ours are the petite black variety, wild and unhybridized. Their shelf life is notably brief. The optimal time for harvesting is when they attain a deep black hue and detach easily with a gentle tug between thumb and finger—no snapping sound should accompany the pluck. However, handling ripe mulberries requires caution as they have a tendency to stain clothes and fingers alike. With birds also avid fans of these berries, I also them enjoy these, especially the one on the upper branches that are hard for me to reach.

Among the array of berries, none quite rival the allure of plump, ruby-red strawberries and succulent, sweet mulberries. There’s a special joy in leisurely strolling by the berry bushes, plucking a few ripe treasures, and savoring each juicy bite mindfully. It’s these simple pleasures that embody the essence of slow living, encouraging a deeper connection with nature and oneself.

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This morning, I rose with the sun, greeted by the cheerful melody of a blue whistling thrush welcoming the day. Inspired by its early serenade, I brewed a cup of coffee and ventured towards the garden.

As I strolled through the garden in the early morning, a delightful medley of fragrances enveloped me. Wild thyme peeked through the blades of grass, infusing the air with its sweet scent. Further along, the crisp aroma of mint blended harmoniously with the delicate perfume of acacia flowers at the end of their bloom, enticing me to pause and savor their fragrance.

Continuing my leisurely walk, I arrived at the small herb patch. Oregano, rosemary, basil, parsley, celery, and an array of local edible herbs flourished before me, each exuding freshness in the morning light. I plucked a few parsley leaves, relishing their vibrant flavor as I moved towards the tomato planter beds.

I got a bit worried after observing tiny aphid-like insects on the lower leaves, but I then noticed a ladybird nearby, a reassuring sign that nature’s balance would prevail. For me, gardening is synonymous with cultivating home-grown herbs and vegetables, free from chemicals, and bursting with health and flavor.

In one corner, lavender had begun to grow, its gentle grey hues catching the light. I drew in a deep breath from the air near it filled with its fresh, calming scent.

As I wandered among the aromatic herbs, gathering lettuce leaves, and harvesting fresh green peas and small but ripe tomatoes for breakfast, I was reminded that this was the essence of slow, mindful living – a simple yet profound connection to the natural rhythms of life.

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In a secluded corner of our garden stands a majestic yet lifeless oak tree, a silent sentinel of time. Though it succumbed to death years ago, its towering stature persists. I’ve intentionally refrained from removing it, and when a recent visitor questioned whether this deliberate inaction was an embodiment of my commitment to slow living, I clarified that it wasn’t. The reason for retaining the dead tree becomes evident upon closer inspection.

Nested within one of its weathered hollows resides a charming family of owlets. The rhythmic pecking of our resident woodpecker reverberates through the stillness, as it tirelessly forages for sustenance. Meanwhile, mushrooms begin their delicate ascent from the trunk, signaling the tree’s gradual return of nutrients to the soil. This lifeless oak has seamlessly woven itself into the intricate tapestry of our ecosystem, and so it stands, untouched by the hands of removal.

However, when I settle into an easy chair amidst the garden’s tranquility and gaze upon the stoic tree, a different kind of richness unfolds. The woodpecker’s industrious pursuit, the curious peeks from the owlets, the bulbuls perched atop its highest branches, and the fleeting passage of white-throated thrushes compose a symphony of life. It is in these moments that the essence of slow living truly envelops me.

Yet, beyond the tangible vitality, the dry oak tree assumes a more profound significance — a philosophical emblem of impermanence. As I reflect on my own transient existence, it becomes a poignant reminder that nothing, not even myself, is immune to the ebb and flow of time. Amidst this realization lies a compelling reason to cherish the life I presently inhabit, embracing the fleeting beauty of each passing moment.

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Basking beneath the winter sun, with the boundless blue sky above, becomes a cherished ritual of mine. Through the tranquil morning, I lounge, immersing myself in the gentle warmth that envelopes my surroundings. While engrossed in a book, I occasionally succumb to a fleeting nap, only to be roused by the sweet melody of a bird—a green-backed tit, gracefully hopping amidst the now dormant apple tree.As the leaves have descended, and the fruit trees slumber, I, unlike them, find myself awakened by these chirping serenades. Blue-whistling Thrush, and a Bulbul also join in creating a lovely ensemble. The sun’s benevolent rays, though inviting, occasionally yield to the passing clouds, imparting a touch of chill to the air. Rotating my chair intermittently, I ensure each facet of my being partakes in the sun’s nurturing embrace. This is a habit I caught on from a friend of mine who visits me from time to time from Almora. It’s akin to turning over again and again while taking a sunbath, but with the clothes on.

In these sun-soaked moments, contemplations drift through the recesses of my mind. The grass, gradually donning a golden hue, reveals the onset of wintry cold. Mornings unveil a delicate frost, swiftly vanquished by the touch of sunlight. Observing a diminutive bumblebee amid the wildflowers, I note its rhythmic dance between sunlit and shaded realms, seeking nectar. A tiny mouse rushes by.

A lazy day is good that it gives me time to admire what nature has to offer. I can also meditate on such instances and feel energized.

Thus, the radiant warmth of the sun, cherished by all, unfolds a sensory tapestry—where nature’s subtleties and the symbiosis of warmth and cold converge in the tranquil theater of winter days. The satisfaction of living a slow life is further enhanced on days like these, thanks to a bright winter sun.

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This morning, with a cup of hot coffee, I sat down on the deck, admiring the beautiful Peach trees growing nearby. They remind me of a battle that I waged against nature and then when I almost lost it, mother nature herself guided me towards the right way to win.

A few years back, I planted some peach trees. From the day I planted them, whenever I saw them growing, I could almost taste the juicy peaches in my mouth. Maybe some nice pies and some delicious cocktails while relaxing in the summer breeze, on a hammock under the tall oaks.

Things started to change when the trees were about 2-3 years old. After the winter, when they started to wake up, the leaves started to curl. New leaves would all curl up and shrivel. With their leaves gone, the trees were having a hard time coping up. As a result when we were looking forward to the fruits, I had to thin them out. After removing most of the fruits, the tree started to concentrate on new leaves but still the leaf curl was there. I had to remove all the fruits. Someone also guided us to add lots of compost or manure and keep it well watered. I did that too. The summers passed with zero peaches for us and lots of work.

A horticulturist told us that it was a fungal disease that was quite common in peaches. He told us to spray a good amount of Copper based fungicide. Even though the organic farmers do it, we were not very happy with the idea. However, the greed for good peaches next year influenced us and I ended up spraying the trees with copper based fungicide after the leaves had fallen off in autumn. Later, I followed it up with another round of spray just before the spring time blossoms. To prevent the fungal spores from spreading again, we had to trim the old oak also nearby, so as to let in more air to blow through the peach tree. All this was in vain. The spring came and the results were the same. Leaf curl, followed by a disheartening task of removing the fruits and then waiting for next autumn to spray again. We were fighting a battle against nature and losing at it.

After two or maybe three years of such battles, we lost all hope and planned to buy peaches from the market rather than grow our own. The trees were left as it is and the horticulturists who visited us kept on pestering us to spray more fungicide. We just ignored them.

The very next year, when we gave up trimming the oak, some green backed tits made their nests in the oak. After a few months, when the spring came, these tits spent the whole of their day feeding on something on the diseased peach trees. This was interesting. Were they feeding on some kind of visible fungus? No, they were feeding on tiny tiny aphids. Bingo ! The horticulturists were wrong all the time. These were the aphids that were causing the leaf curl. The birds kept feeding on the aphids and within a couple of weeks, the peach tree was full of fresh healthy leaves. The fruits were also dangling around. That was the first year when we enjoyed the peaches and that too without spraying any kind of fungicide. Mother nature had taught us.

Today, as I sit here sipping my coffee, I see the green-backed tits again, working steadily on the peach tree. A few blue-coloured birds help them. I have not bothered to photograph or identify them. There is no need to trim the oak tree or spray chemicals. In fact, there is no need to do anything at all. I just sit back and relax. The relaxed feel and free time makes me ponder on more important and deeper thoughts related to life and happiness. When the time comes, the peaches will be ready and we will enjoy pies and cocktails.

Next year, maybe, I will spray some neem oil if the aphids are in excess but I doubt that. I have also planted garlic under the tree in the hope that maybe the antifungal effects of garlic may protect when fungal leaf curl happens. Come to think of it, was Count Dracula from popular literature in some way related to any fungus, that garlic helped protect from him?

Anyway, what I have realized is that nature balances out things. We are fools to believe that we can do better than nature.

That’s slow living for me.

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Since the time I started my life in the slow lane, I have been planting trees. Sometimes fruit trees, sometimes forest trees, sometimes just bushes or shrubs. This has become an activity that I am thinking of most of the time or planning my day around it. Yes, it always gives a wonderful feeling. Planning all the fruits that I may enjoy in future, the shade from the trees under which I can sit and read a good book on a summer afternoon, a pair of thick trees that may support my hammock in future, or the tall chestnut and walnut trees that will provide nuts for the generations to come.

I frequently get totally engrossed in this simple task of planting trees. Maybe it is mindfulness, maybe it is meditation, or maybe it is my love for nature that I also find my Ikigai in this activity.

The fruit trees that I buy are usually sold as bare-root trees, in their state of hibernation. These are planted in winters. There is a method to planting these trees as well. I soak the roots in a bucket of water for around 4 hours in the morning. After that I take these out and plant them in planting holes that I would have prepared well in advance, filling the soil back while holding the tree upright in the center of the hole.

The height of the fruit tree in the planting hole is also a matter of discussion. Most of the fruit trees available nowadays are grafted ones. Some people recommend keeping the grafting joint above the soil. This prevents the diseases affecting the joint and also enables the scion (the grafted upper part) enjoy the properties of rootstock (the base on which the grafting is done). Some fruit trees even prefer the top most roots to be partially exposed to the air! The rootstocks are usually chosen for their disease-resistance though it is not uncommon choosing them for their effect on final tree size. On the other hand, there are some horticulturists who recommend planting the grafting joint just under the soil. Doing so helps establish roots from the scion part as well, which in turn enables a larger and more beautiful looking tree. I use both the methods, depending on what kind of tree I have at hand and the desired outcome.

For shrubs and bushes, I soak the roots for around an hour and then plant them. Recently, I planted some raspberries. They bear fruit within a year or two, and so I am already imagining the fresh juicy berries on my breakfast table. In my opinion, no fruit orchard is complete without some kind of berries.

Apart from the bare-root trees, some nurseries also sell trees growing in small pots or plastic bags. These are my second choice when it comes to buying trees. The advantage is that such trees can be planted all round the year. However, I don’t like them much. First of all, these are expensive. The plant nurseries charge exorbitantly. Maybe due to the fact that most of these nurseries are located in places of easy accessibility and rich people are their usual patrons. Another reason why I don’t prefer these is because the trees get used to the soil in the pot/bag. The soil carries its own signature (nutrients, consistency, microorganisms, fungi, and lots of other factors). Once transplanted, the roots of such trees seem reluctant to leave their comfort zone of old soil and so the tree grows slowly. Transplanting is also a shock for the young tree. Still, the fact that these trees can be planted at any time of the year or can be transported long distances and for a long period before transplanting, makes such plants quite attractive.

Regardless of the type of tree, planting is always a welcome activity for me. Today, I planted some fruit trees and a couple of oaks too. What a lovely feeling it is. We all are indebted to mother nature for providing us with everything, therefore it is also our moral duty to give back to the earth. Planting trees is one such activity that can repay a part of our debt. If you have a place where you can plant a tree, do it !

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This morning, I felt lazy and did not feel like making my breakfast. I went for a coffee with my neighbours. They are good people. More than the laziness, it is the longing for human interaction once in a while, that I visit my neighbours. As such, I am more of a loner and happy in my own company. Later in the day, I had planned on planting some fruit trees today. Our discussion went to this topic and then I realised that very few people actually give a serious thought about how a hole for planting a tree should be dug. So, these are my thoughts for my lovely neighbours to help them in future and for anyone starting to lead a slow life.

This is just about how the hole for planting a tree should be. First of all, it should be dug out of a slightly larger size than you feel is sufficient. There is a method for digging. I first mark the area to be dug, usually a square (and not a round hole). Next, when I start digging, the top soil is gathered on one side of the hole and then the soil from deep down on the other side. Usually, I prefer double the depth of holes than the longest roots visible. The width also is usually equal to the depth but then again it depends on trees being planted. For shallow root trees, the hole should be much broader than deep. It also depends on soil. In a ground full of clay or large rocks, I prefer to dig a large hole. The hole has to be cuboidal. This prevents the roots from going round and round as happens in a usual planter or pot. Also, a little taper of the hole outwards towards the top helps the superficial roots. If you still want to go for a round hole, scrape some of the sides vertically (almost as if Wolverine scratched the side from top to bottom).

Once the planting hole is dug, I do a quick test by filling it with water and seeing how fast or slow the water gets absorbed. Slow absorption means a compacted soil, maybe full of clay. Fast absorption happens in loose soil or sandy soil. Once the water disappears from the hole, I plant the tree.

While filling the planting hole back, the soil from deep down the hole goes in first. The top soil gets filled back on the top. This ensures that the soil structure remains almost as it was before and this also helps in faster establishment of fungal networks in the soil. Even the soil microorganisms and worms, get to stay in their original position. Also shake the plant a little while filling back if it is a bare root one. This will enable an ample amount of soil to get between the roots.

There is yet another thought that has the gardening society divided. Whether to mix compost / manure, in the soil that is being put back in the hole. The ‘for group’ says that it helps in the initial growth of the tree. The ‘against group’ says that it may harm the tender roots and in the long term restrict the root growth to within the hole. I belong to both the groups. I vary my opinion from hole to hole depending on the soil conditions inside and the kind of fruit tree being planted. As a rule, it is better to err on the lower side of addition of soil enrichments than going overboard with this. Also, depending on the texture of the soil, some gypsum, bone meal, or other soil amendments may be needed in different holes.

And now the last part. For ground that is compacted or clay soil, the planting hole should be filled back completely and then a small conical mound created around the plant. The highest point being around the stem of the plant and then slanting out to almost the ground level near the edge of the original hole that was dug. This prevents rain water from seeping in excessively. It’s the opposite of what people usually do. The hole in such a soil that was dug, acts as a planter without any drainage. So, creating a depression around the tree actually ends up damaging the tree by leading to waterlogging in the hole. Most trees hate wet feet.

On the other hand, if the soil is loamy, soft, or sandy, the hole should be filled back to a slightly lower level than the surrounding ground. Even making a central depression and a small circular mound around the hole helps. This helps collect water from rain or irrigation.

I think this is all there is to digging a hole for planting and filling it back. Maybe, I might have missed something. I will read the steps after I finish planting some trees today and add if I missed anything.

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It is said that, how good a garden or orchard is in summers, depends on the hard work done during winters. This may not be the right way of putting things in perspective but still some work needs to be done during winters too.

The sun is starting to shift north and the birds are starting to show signs that spring is not far away. Soon, the trees will start to wake up. This is the time when some pruning has to be done.

Pruning is a very simple thing to do. First, the dead and diseased branches are removed. Next the suckers and water-sprouts are removed. These two are very interestingly named. I can’t help but chuckle whenever I prune these away. After this comes the pruning that some horticulturists swear by. Cutting the branches to have fruits within easy reach, and to have more healthy growth. For apples, the fruiting happens on old wood, so pruning usually is done to remove this new wood and to promote more branching. Peaches on the other hand are pruned so as to remove old wood and promote the growth of new wood.

For apricots, I prefer not to prune at all. In fact, I don’t like pruning to begin with. If nature intended a plant or a tree to grow in a particular manner, who are we to interfere and change that. From what I have gathered, the trees, including the fruit trees should never be pruned. But, if they have been pruned once, then they have to be pruned always. And so, I am stuck with pruning some apple, plum, and peach trees, year after year.

Pruning also seems to give a boost to the ego of many horticulturists and farmers that I know. The knowledge that they can trim a branch just above a bud and then predict how the branch is going to sprout, makes them feel really special.

I, on the other hand, can never feel that ego boost. I always feel humbled by the fact that these trees and their leaves are the only beings in this world that can make their own food. Rest all the animal kingdom is dependent on these original makers of food or other animals for their diet. These trees have been here long before humans even existed. They have seen centuries pass by. The trees have provided fruits since ancient times and no one pruned them then. They have grown and sustained. Who are we to interfere and feel that we can do better than nature ? Problem is that they have not been left in the way they should have been. The soil has altered over the last few centuries, the ecology surrounding the trees has changed, so some efforts have to be put in to provide a setting as close as possible to the natural system and yet have delicious fruits in whatever constraints now exist.

A gray winged blackbird hops around on a tree nearby, breaking my flow of thoughts. Well, it’s time for me to pick up the secateurs and get down to pruning, something about whose, long term advantages are still not clear to me.

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Why don’t I till the soil or turn it over? Why are there weeds growing around in my garden? These and many similar questions keep coming to me and it is hard to convince people with my answers.

Soil is a very complex structure. It’s full of life. Everything is important. Even the so called weeds. They hold the soil together. Their roots make an extensive network in the soil which also works to absorb rainwater. Some of these roots die and add organic matter to the soil. Even the leaves that fall from these so called leaves add to humus. White Dutch Clover is a star in my garden. It helps fix nitrogen, provides home to ladybirds, flowers attract pollinators, and helps in absorption of water. This is just one of the so-called weeds.

Try comparing a patch of land that has been cleaned, the weeds pulled out and the soil left exposed, to another patch of land with weeds all over. Winds will not blow the soil away from the uncleared soil. Water will not erode. In fact, more rain water will reach the depths where there are weeds. On the other hand, just walking around on a cleared up land will compact the soil and make it still poorer.

The fungus that is present in the soil makes a widespread web. The trees, the bushes, and even the low grass are connected to each other. They convey vital information and take care of their lot. A single stroke of spade into the soil breaks all the connections in its path. Imagine what running a tiller or a tractor does to the soil.

There is life in the soil. Apart from the fungal networks, various bacteria work hard to enrich the soil. Tiny creatures like earthworms churn the soil and help in decomposition. Various organisms work at different stages and different levels to bring about the soil that we see around us.

One more disadvantage of tilling is that it forces the soil to release the nutrients needed by plants all of a sudden and excessively. These are much more than the amount actually required and taken up by plants. The excess nutrients just get washed away or wasted. So, with every cycle of tilling or soil turning, the soil is rendered poorer and poorer nutritionally speaking. The burying down of grasses or plants while doing so also releases an excessive amount of carbon that causes a nutritional imbalance for the plants… also not good.

For me, soil is a sacred thing in my garden and orchard. The less I disturb it, the better it is. Chemicals like pesticides, weedicides, antibacterial sprays, etc. are poisons that have been slowly and slowly killing the soil. The nutritional value of produce from commercial farming is going down. Every year more and more chemical fertilizer is needed to get the same produce. This is disheartening. Maybe people will start waking up to this and start respecting soil.

I will start this new year by planting some acorns (that I found on a rock) near a pathway so that some centuries later, someone like me, may sit down under the oak and be impressed by the wonders of nature.

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Waking up to a white frosted landscape, and then observing how slowly and slowly the areas where the sun touches start to turn colorful again, is an experience in itself. Standing outside while the sun starts to kiss the parts of our garden is a lovely feeling. I adjust my location as the spots getting the sun change. Every few minutes, I am forced to move. Every morning, standing around in the sun, and just observing nature, is a blessing that slow living has taught me to admire.

Today, once the landscape was bright and a little warm, I planted some fruit trees. It seems like I am busy planting trees whenever I get a chance. Apples, pears, plums, apricots, and some persimmons. These will take a long time to grow and give fruits. I like the huge trees of heirloom varieties/cultivars. The saplings were bare-root, so these had to be planted while they were still asleep, and without exposing them to open for long. I got them yesterday, so today this had to be done. Even with slow living, at times, things have to be done as a priority.

Saplings or plants sold in pots, with soil around their roots, can be planted whenever one feels like. There is no urgency or a strict time window for them, but bare-root plants adapt better to the new place where they are planted.

I’ve planted various fruit trees today, including some nut-bearing ones. One of the nut species will take nearly a decade or two to yield well. But when it does, my children and future generations will be able to enjoy both their nourishing nuts and the cool shade they provide during warm summers.

The planting took some time and effort. I call it hard work, maybe just to justify to myself the lazying around for the rest of the day, and contemplating on some aspects of life and emotions. So, after planting, I again found a nice sunny spot, to warm myself up, and admire the clouds floating by. In the afternoon, the spots getting sun don’t change as frequently as in the morning. Good for me.

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The weather is quite dry nowadays. No clouds to be seen anywhere. There has been no rain all through the autumn and now we are into winter.

Today, I watered some of my young trees and the lawn. Extensive frost is yet to set in. The deciduous trees have already shed their leaves. A passerby asked me, why was I watering the young plants that had already shed leaves. He was not interested in listening to my reasons but just wanted to comment. I replied that maybe I had hit my head somewhere and lost my marbles. I want to water them and so I am doing that. He was almost convinced that I had really lost it, or maybe he didn’t hear what I said. Quietly, he went away.

The plants may be sleeping but their roots still need water. The same goes with grass too. Deep irrigation also prevents some frost damage. So, yes, everyone should water their garden even when the plants seem to be sleeping and winter is starting to knock on the door. Just ensure that you water in the first half of the day, when the temperature is a little above freezing point, and when there is little to no wind. Instead of sprinklers that wet the leaves, use a garden hose that waters the soil and roots.

Birds seem to understand my thoughts. A group of sparrows and tits settled down on an old apricot tree. They were cheerfully chirping and somehow seemed to say that I was doing the right thing for my garden.

Leaving the garden to grow as nature intended, without any intervention, is the best way. ‘Rewilding’ is the way to go, but till the time nature starts to work its own magic, some corrections by us humans, are needed to make up for the damages that we have done to the gardens and orchards over the last few centuries.

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